Together, We're Just Better Off
by myheartisyours0523
Summary: Blaine gets taught a lesson; Kurt tries not to get hurt.
1. Touch

**Disclaimer - I don't own it.**

* * *

Kurt lifts the collar of his Gucci shirt to his nose.

The smell of his sheets, the soft smell of laundry detergent and Blaine's cologne mixed together, clung to the two-hundred dollar cotton.

He closes his eyes.

He can almost feel the fumbling fingers against his skin.

He can almost taste his lips, taste the flavor of liquor on his tongue, taste the warm skin stretched across Blaine's neck, across his chest, down his taut stomach.

He can almost hear Blaine whisper, hear things like "you're beautiful" and "I've wanted you for so long".

His teal eyes flicker open.

Blaine sat a room's length away from him, his full lips wrapped around the plastic top on his coffee. Kurt feels a tightness in his chest that doesn't go away.

Because he knows Blaine can't remember any of it.

He can't almost feel Kurt touching him, tasting him, hear him whispering back.

But if Blaine lifted the collar of his casual shirt to his nose, he would smell Kurt's cologne.

He might remember, if he did.

But he doesn't.

* * *

Blaine wonders if Kurt knew he remembers.

Remembers the kiss that he, drunken Blaine, had initiated.

Remembers that Kurt had let out a little, muffled sound of surprise and immediately pulled back, saying, "You've had too much to drink."

Remembers denying this wholeheartedly and taking Kurt's face in his hands, ever so gently, and stealing Kurt's lips again.

He remembers.

He just doesn't want to.

Because what if, _what if, _Kurt hadn't brought it up for a reason?

What if the countertenor doesn't _want _him to remember at all?

He takes another sip from his coffee, feeling the liquid wash away the headache that all the alcohol had caused.

It didn't taste nearly as good as Kurt's skin had, under his tongue.

He steals a glance upward. Across the room, Kurt is deeply interested in his thumbnail.

Blaine bends his head just enough to take a deep breath of the cologne that had found its way onto his cardigan. He savors it, let it fill his lungs, and sips his coffee again.

Because he remembers _everything_.

He just doesn't want to.

* * *

Kurt pulls up his shirt, just a little.

A finger-shaped bruise blooms at his hip bone, purple and menacing.

Kurt remembers himself gasping, arching his back, relishing the feel on Blaine's fingers against his skin.

He glances up at himself, into his mirror.

Kurt wants to feel Blaine's body against him again. He wants to feel Blaine's lips on his skin.

He reaches, a finger smoothing over one of the three bruises at the soft part of his neck.

There's a sharp knock on his door and he doesn't have time to button his shirt, because Blaine bursts in the door without invitation.

There's a very _awkward _silence while Blaine's eyes travel down his exposed abdomen and then rest, very carefully, on the bruise coloring his hip.

His eyebrows disappear into his curly hair.

Kurt hastens to button his shirt again.

"I...Uhm...I..." His tongue stumbles over the thick words stuck in his throat, just like his thin fingers stumble over the slick buttons. "Did you...Did you need something?"

Blaine's eyes won't stop moving. They find the bruises on Kurt's neck before he has time to cover them. He clears his throat. "Rough night?"

"What?" It drops out of his mouth before he can even register what Blaine said. "Oh. Yeah. I...Finn was...We played hockey."

He wonders if there's a lamer excuse in existence.

"Hockey." The word rolls off Blaine's tongue like he knows Kurt is lying. Like it's obvious.

Kurt ducks his head and struggles with the last few buttons on his shirt. There's a moment when he pokes himself in the stomach and lets out a little squeaking noise and, even though he tries to cover it up, Blaine smiles.

"Here..."

And then Blaine's fingers, long, reach out and fasten the remaining buttons with expertise.

Kurt wonders if he even notices when his index finger slips and brushes Kurt's chest, just barely smoothing over the surface of his skin.

And there's a second, a _split second_, when Blaine's bright eyes catch his, that Kurt thinks maybe, _just maybe_, he remembers.

Remembers the deep kisses, the moaning, the warmth of each other as they fell asleep.

But Blaine looks away and clears his throat again. He steps back, leaving the last button on Kurt's shirt undone. "I should go."

Kurt looks down at his feet and waited, patiently, until the door closes.

When it does, when he's alone and the smell of Blaine's aftershave lingers in the air, he hugs himself and sighs.

* * *

The next time Kurt finds him, he's sucking down the last of the vodka that had somehow made it into his hand and standing just a little too close to Rachel.

Rachel, who's chatting on about Barbara Streisand and will not, even when Blaine tries to walk away, let him leave.

The next time Blaine sees Kurt in the crowd of New Directions and Warblers, he's being chatted up by a very amiable looking blonde kid.

Blaine tries not be jealous, but the blonde kid gets close. Too close.

His hand is smoothing circles into Kurt's shoulder, his eyes locked onto Kurt's face.

There's a drink in Kurt's hand, and he looks like he's on the verge of tears.

So Blaine seizes enough drunken courage to stumble over to them, to push Sam's hand off Kurt's back and proclaim loudly, "We fucked!"

Everything - the music, the laughter, the chatting - seems to halt. Kurt's cheeks bloom a bright red and Blaine looses his footing. He falls onto the floor.

Finn is blinking at him, little stress lines forming on his forehead.

Blaine wonders if he's spilled a huge secret.

He wonders if it actually happened.

Kurt grabs him under the armpits and lifts; he comes off the floor and his head is buried in the crook of Kurt's soft neck. He hears Kurt whisper, "Blaine, you've had _way _too much to drink," and the music starts again.

He can hear Kurt convincing Finn, "He's just had to much to drink" and he can hear Finn believing him.

But the nape of Kurt's neck smells like Blaine's collar.

"Kurt."

There's a little huff of annoyance; Blaine can feel Kurt's chest heaving against his as the countertenor struggles to drag him down an unknown hallway.

"Kurt."

"What is it?"

"I love you."

"No, you're drunk."

That hurts. There's a little stab in his chest, a fist around his intestines.

He makes sure to lean away from Kurt when he pukes.

Kurt isn't gentle when he shoves Blaine away from him and they both slide down the hallway wall. The Warbler watches with heavy eyes as Kurt drags his knees up to his chest and presses his eyes against the denim.

In seconds, Blaine can hear the beginning sounds of sharp sobs.

He tries to drag himself upright, to lift an arm of lead and drape around his friend's shoulders.

He can't.

He feels helpless and sad, but he doesn't know, _exactly_, what he said or did wrong.

Because all he did was tell Kurt the truth.

Kurt cries for a few minutes (or maybe it was longer, but the alcohol had quickened Blaine's internal clock) and then, with a sharp sniffle and a wipe of his eyes, he pulls Blaine upright again.

"Blaine, do me a favor."

He presses his lips into Kurt's collarbone.

"Stop drinking."

The last thing he remembers is Kurt placing him carefully under the covers and, when he thought Blaine was asleep, slipping beneath them and wrapping his thin arms around the Warbler.

He never let go.

* * *

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	2. Smell

**Disclaimer - I don't own it.**

* * *

He never lets go.

Not even when Blaine wakes up, with his head pounding and his tongue heavy.

He feels Kurt's arms, warm, wrapped loosely around him, one hand sturdy against his stomach.

He wonders, vaguely, if there was a better way to wake up.

He rolls over, carefully prying Kurt's arms away from him. He presses a kiss into the crown of Kurt's head; he really can't help himself.

Because Kurt's hair smells like coconut and honey, and it's intoxicating.

He changes his shirt quickly (there were stains on the front of his other one that he just _didn't _want to deal with) and leaves Kurt's bedroom before the countertenor even has time to wake up.

He feels lost, suddenly, and alone.

He pulls his shirt tighter around him, feeling the cotton hug his skin.

When he presses his nose into the fabric, it smells like Kurt.

When he breathes in deep, he realizes it kind of smells like…himself?

* * *

Kurt wakes up alone.

Just like every other day, except his favorite sweater is missing from the chair he had tossed it on.

The sweater that Blaine had torn a little hole in, the sweater that had nearly been ripped off his body.

Kurt sighs.

He turns over and touches the empty space beside him, fingers the soft imprint that Blaine had left behind.

It's still warm.

He lets his head fall onto Blaine's borrowed pillow and inhales.

Soap. Aftershave. Laundry detergent. Alcohol.

Exhale.

There's something heavy in his chest that he just can't place.

He picks himself off the bed and walks to the shower. He barely bothers to grab a towel.

Words echo in his head and, no matter how loud his radio is, no matter how much the water pounds in his ears, Kurt can't get rid of them.

Because he can't let himself forget the mumbled "I love you". He can't.

Because he thinks that maybe his heart would break into a thousand pieces if he did.

He feels the water slip down his back and wants it to wash away the marks on his neck, the marks on his hips, the feel of Blaine's body pressing into his.

He wants it to wash away the memories.

When his foot presses into the cold tile floor and he shivers, he knows it hadn't.

Because he could remember Blaine's palms ghosting up and down his body, murmuring, _"Are you cold, Kurt? You're shivering."_

He hadn't been cold.

He had been happy.

* * *

Blaine can't really remember what he said.

He just knew it was important.

Because the next time Kurt sees him, he walks in the opposite direction.

Because the next time Blaine shouts after him, waving his shirt around and calling his name, everyone _but _Kurt glances back at him.

Because when Blaine catches his wrist, finally, as they left English, Kurt yanks it out of his grip.

Yanks it out of his grip and spits, "Blaine, _leave me alone_."

Blaine doesn't think he's ever been address with such _hatred _before. Such furiousness, such detestation.

He wants to take Kurt in his arms, wants to hold onto him forever and never let go.

To whisper things, true things, honest things, in his ears.

Because maybe _then_, Kurt would actually listen.

But instead, he watches Kurt walk away and wonders how, how, how, _how_ he could have possibly messed up so badly.

* * *

Kurt has to cover his mouth as he walks away.

Because he doesn't think that the diva walk is very convincing when he's sobbing uncontrollably.

He doesn't know why he suddenly feels…_disappointed._

Maybe because Blaine was supposed to be his first Knight, his first love, his first promise, his first everything.

Kurt wipes at his tears. He can't really bring himself to be mad.

Because he knows it's his fault.

His fault for setting high standards, his fault for living in a fairytale, his fault for making something out of nothing.

But it didn't change the fact that somehow, through everything, Blaine had just ended up being his first_ fuck_.

* * *

He hears the door open, but doesn't bother to look around.

Because the only person that matters would never visit him again.

Except there's a little cough, a little puff of breath that Blaine recognizes immediately.

He feels his heart swell.

He doesn't think anyone could blame him.

He pats the bed, very gently, and he feels the weight shift as Kurt perches himself on the edge.

There's a bottle of wine, or vodka, or something, poking into his side.

He offers the bottle, expecting Kurt to decline instantaneously.

Because they both know what happened last time they drank together.

But he sees Kurt's thin fingers reach up, brushing the bruises at his neck, like they were a reminder of something.

Blaine feels his mouth dry.

There's a little hesitation, and then he takes the bottle carefully from Blaine's hand and wraps his lips around the glass.

Blaine wonders vaguely if there was anyone more beautiful than Kurt in existence.

When the countertenor hands the bottle back, their fingers graze.

He's sure he can still feel the shock of electricity that had riveted up his spine when his index finger had brushed against Kurt's smooth skin.

He's sure that it's the alcohol that makes him say, "I'm sorry."

"I thought I told you not to drink." It's snipped and cold and Blaine wonders if maybe, just maybe, Kurt would leave.

But then Kurt lays back, his head hitting the pillow and his hand knocking Blaine's, and the Warbler swears his heart might burst.

Because he wants nothing more than to roll over and kiss Kurt square on his beautiful lips.

He doesn't, though.

Kurt hands him back the bottle. Blaine notices that it's nearly empty, but doesn't say anything; instead, he chugs the remaining ounces and drops the bottle onto the carpeted floor. Kurt's fingers trace circles into his forearm.

Blaine hopes he doesn't notice the goosebumps.

"Blaine?"

It sounds so pretty, coming from Kurt's lips.

He turns his head, just a little, to meet the countertenors clear, teal eyes. "Yes?"

There's a moment when Blaine thinks that Kurt's going to ask him. Demand to know if what he said was true, if Blaine really loved him, if everything was real.

But all he says is, "Kiss me."

There's a silence, and Blaine swears Kurt can hear his heart hammering loudly against his chest.

But he cranes his neck, just slightly, to place a kiss into Kurt's soft cheek.

When he pulls back, he looks down into Kurt's face.

And there's something about the little crooked smile, the sparkle in his teal eyes, the way his arm is tucked under his head that leaves Blaine breathless.

Breathless, and brainless.

Because before he can stop himself, he kisses Kurt's cheek for the second time.

And then his chin.

His button nose.

His forehead.

His jawline.

His neck.

And then, _and then_, he manages to stop himself.

But not before his fingers find their way under Kurt's button-down and smooth over his exposed abdomen.

Not before Kurt's hand threads itself through Blaine's dark hair.

Not before they both forget themselves.

But Blaine never forgets himself for long.

He retracts his hand from Kurt's naked stomach like it has suddenly caught fire. The countertenor unthreads his hand. Blaine immediately misses it.

He sits up, pushing a hand through his curly hair.

"Sorry." It's mumbled, and Blaine really doesn't think Kurt heard him.

But the bed shifts slightly and a pair of arms wrap around his chest from behind. Blaine leans back into Kurt, his eyes falling shut.

Because being held, just being _held_, shouldn't feel that good.

"I want you." Lips press into his shoulder.

Blaine feels incredibly confused.

Because wasn't this Kurt? Angry, hurt Kurt that had nearly slapped him yesterday?

The lips move up his shoulder and teeth nip at his earlobe.

The room spins.

"Kurt."

He starts to suck a spot under Blaine's ear.

"Kurt. You don't love me, do you?"

There's a pause, and he feels Kurt tense around him. He doesn't know what to say, really, except, "That's why you won't admit that we made love."

It makes sense, even in his groggy state. He pushes Kurt's hands away from him and shoves his face into his comforter.

It smells like coconut and honey.

Against the fabric, he mumbles, "You don't love me."

There's a silence, long and painful, and it makes Blaine's heart clench.

He feels the bed move beneath him, hears the door close across from him.

He doesn't want to move.

He nearly regrets it; he misses the warmth of Kurt's arms, the smell of his hair, the brush of his skin.

But he doesn't.

He doesn't regret it at all.

* * *

**Duhduhduh.**

**"WTF, Kurt?"**

**Yeah, I know. Tune in later.  
**

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	3. Feel

**Disclaimer - I don't own it.**

**Oh, also, this chapter is kinda slow.  
**

* * *

Kurt hears thunder.

He's not sure why it wakes him; it never has before. There's rain tapping against the roof and, across the hall, Kurt can hear Finn snoring.

He rolls over and pulls the covers up over his shoulder.

There's a moment, a quiet, very short moment, when Kurt feels very, very alone.

He feels it build inside him, feels his heart clench, feels the cold slip under his designer comforter and make him shiver.

He almost cries.

Instead, though, he stretches out a hand, pale in the dark, and snatches his cell phone off his bedside table.

He winces at the brightness of the display as he flips it open; it only takes him a few moments to find "Blaine" in his contacts.

When he hits send, he doesn't really think about it.

He just feels the coldness finding its way up his spine, feels the emptiness in his chest.

And when Blaine's answering machine picks up with a very chipper, "_Hey, it's Blaine, looks like you must have missed me…_" Kurt listens the whole way through. When the beep comes, when he's supposed to leave his message, he sighs quietly and hangs up.

And dials again.

_Hey, it's Blaine, looks like you must have missed me…_

* * *

Blaine wakes up with 60 missed calls blinking on his cell phone.

He feels adrenaline pump through his veins; what if someone had been hurt? What if Kurt was laying dead in a ditch somewhere in Lima?

His heart hitches as he dials.

"Hello?" He sounds tired. Exhausted, even. Blaine sighs.

"Kurt, I have a bunch of missed calls on my - "

"Sorry." There's static at the other end, and Blaine registers it as Kurt sitting up in bed. "I guess my phone must have malfunctioned or…something."

There's a long silence and neither of them can think of anything to say. Blaine can hear water dripping off the rain gutter, can smell bacon and coffee coming from downstairs.

"How…" There's a little break in Kurt's voice and it breaks Blaine's heart. "…How have you been?"

_Awful_, he wants to say, _awful without you_. _Without talking to you, without laughing with you, without holding you. I miss you, I miss you, I miss you._

"Fine."

Kurt clears his throat. "We should…talk."

Kurt never struggles with words, but he seems to stumble over every syllable. Blaine rubs sleep out of his eyes. "Yeah, okay, Kurt."

"Soon."

"Are you sure you're all right?" He pushes thoughts of ditches and death from his head as Kurt confirms that _yes, yes, he's fine_. "Okay. Meet me at Driade at 12. We can…talk."

Kurt agrees and hangs up before Blaine can investigate the situation further.

The Warbler looks at his display, at the ended call, and wonders where in the _world _he went wrong.

* * *

Kurt smells his chai latte before he even sees it.

The woman gives him a nasty look when he asks "Is that mine?" as she pushes it across the counter.

He "forgets" to drop his spare change in the tip jar.

When he drops himself into their regular seat, it feels different. More open, less secluded. More like everyone around him was watching.

He moves to the table in the corner; the shoulder that rests against the pale yellow wall gives him a sense of stability. Side conversations find his ears as he waits, but nothing can distract him from the thoughts that thunder through his head.

He doesn't have a plan. He doesn't know what he's going to say.

He just knows he needs to say _something_.

Something to make it right.

"Kurt."

He ignores the rush of butterflies in his stomach, ignores the goosebumps on his skin when he realizes that _he's made the voice moan_, and blinks up to meet Blaine's hazel eyes.

A mistake he realizes too late; those eyes were so _tired_. So _bored. _So incredibly _indifferent. _

"How's the chai?" He settles himself across from Kurt like they did it everyday; the countertenor swallows, his fingers clenching around the coffee collar.

"Fine."

He nods and lifts his message bag over his head. Kurt's eyes are drawn downward to that little strip of tan skin that exposes itself as his tee shirt rides a little higher than usual.

Blaine notices. An eyebrow arches, and he pulls the material back down.

Kurt blushes red and hides behind his coffee cup.

"You said you wanted to talk?" He says it like a question, like Kurt might have changed his mind. Like he knows, somehow, that the last thing Kurt really wants to do is talk.

"Yes." He tries to say it confidently, but the assurance seems to die in his throat. The corner of Blaine's beautiful mouth is turned upward into a little smile that's supposed to be comforting, but it just distracts the countertenor immensely.

He remembers, very suddenly, how it felt to have Blaine smile against his skin.

Against his mouth.

"Do you want me to start?" He can barely manage a nod. Blaine clears his throat. "Okay. Basically, Kurt, I miss you."

He meets Blaine's eyes; he can't help the feeling that fills his chest. That strong feeling of something like _hope_.

"I miss talking to you. Singing with you." He reaches across the table and runs the tips of his fingers over the back of Kurt's hand. They felt like fire against his skin. "I'd like to have you back as my friend, Kurt. I miss that."

Except friends didn't really make each other's _hearts pound. _

Kurt swallows a mouthful of coffee and nearly chokes on it. He can taste _friend _on his tongue and doesn't like it.

"I agree completely." _Lie_. "I think that'll be best in this…situation."_ Lie._

Because he knows that would he should do, really, is lunge across the table and take Blaine's face in both hands. He should kiss him all over and tell him how much he needs him, how much he wants him, how much he loves him.

He doesn't though.

And Blaine only smiles. "What situation?"

"I…The…I just thought…?" He wants to ask him if he remembered. Remembered _anything. _Because Blaine's clear hazel eyes didn't seem to remember anything at all. "I just...With everything...the alcohol and..."

Blaine lifts a shoulder. "We just haven't been talking lately and I miss that."

His heart drops into his stomach.

He feels that cold feeling, the one that crawls into his chest and just _stays _there.

He can't bring himself to look into Blaine's eyes anymore, but he makes himself give the tiniest of smiles.

He makes himself nod.

Because, really, what else is he supposed to do?

* * *

It kills him a little every time it slips passed his lips.

_Friends_.

He didn't think it was possible to hate a word so much.

Kurt looks surprised. Surprised and confused, with his hands wrapped around his coffee cup like it was the only thing anchoring him in his seat.

"I think that'll be best in this…situation…"

Blaine thinks about their "situation". About what he admitted, how much he loved Kurt, about how Kurt had reacted to it.

And he realizes that maybe _not _having a "situation" would be easier.

For Kurt.

Because the countertenor just looks like he's in _pain. _

So he says, "What situation?"

And watches confusion swirl in Kurt's pretty features, watches him fish for the right words.

He never finds them.

* * *

**Slow and awful, I know. Again, I have awful writers block with .story I'm trying to finish...FML.**

**Cures, anyone? **

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	4. See

**Disclaimer - I don't own it.**

**Please remember to review. It's incredibly helpful.  
**

* * *

He doesn't like the way Blaine never seems to _see _him.

How his hazel eyes seem to glance right through him, how they passed over him as though he was invisible.

Because if Kurt was used to one thing, it was being _seen_.

He looks down at his text book and tries to read.

But across the room, Blaine was laughing far too loudly to ignore.

And he wasn't alone.

Kurt doubts severely that he's ever seen the boy sitting carefully beside the Warbler, but there's something very familiar about the way he's batting his eyelashes, the way he laughs and throws out an hand, subtly touching Blaine's muscled arm.

His fingers contract and he accidentally rips a page out of his History book.

The sound makes Blaine look around.

His eyes land and, for once, stay on Kurt's face.

Kurt wonders if he can see the turmoil beneath his perfectly composed façade.

Blaine looks away.

It's after they disappeared, after Kurt is left alone in the common room, that he realizes what exactly was so recognizable.

The boy, flirty and young, reminded Kurt of _himself. _

* * *

Blaine tries very hard not to shove the kid away from him.

Too young, too clingy, too annoying.

He laughs at something he didn't hear and watches his face light up.

H remembers Kurt's eyes doing something similar.

He sighs and glances over.

Kurt looks content, flipping through his text book. Occupied, and not thinking of Blaine at all.

Happy, even.

The Warbler beside him (Grant? Greg? He can't remember) lifts a hand and presses his meaty fingers into Blaine's bicep.

Blaine tries not to think of Kurt's fingers on his skin, tries to forget the taste of Kurt's lips, tries not to wonder if he ever thought of the same things.

Grant/Greg's hair is blonde. Blaine has never had a thing for blondes.

He likes Kurt's hair. He likes the soft brown. He likes the way it sticks up in the morning when Kurt first rolls over. He likes the way the countertenor can't _stand _when it sticks up. He likes the way it smells like coconut and honey and the way Blaine used to run his fingers through it.

He hears ripping.

When he looks up, Kurt's bright eyes lock onto his, and for once, Blaine can't tear himself away from them. He tries to see under that mask of indifference, tries to tell him how much he loves him just through his eyes.

But then Kurt looks away to inspect a ripped page in his book and Grant/Greg invites him to watch My Fair Lady.

He sneaks another look at Kurt, but the countertenor is fully engaged in the Civil War. Blaine ducks his head and tells Grant/Greg that he's tired and would rather just go to bed.

They leave together, though, with Grant/Greg's arm pressed subconsciously into his.

Blaine wonders if Kurt even notices.

* * *

It's hard to avoid him.

To avoid those hazel eyes.

Because, if Kurt was being honest with himself, that's really what he misses most.

He misses the shared looks, the soft smirks, the intense, passionate stare that had positively _melted _him.

For course, Kurt sighs, it's _easy _to avoid him when he won't even look at Kurt for more than thirty seconds.

But Kurt finds himself studying the curve of his bicep under his white tee shirt, memorizing the sharp, chiseled line of his jaw, the curls that fall out of the constricting, perfect gel.

His fingernails dig into his palm to remind himself that _no, that isn't acceptable._

Because friends didn't stare at friends.

He guessed that, technically, friends actually _talked_.

Blaine had said exactly three words to him since the coffee shop, since Kurt had dropped the huge _friends _bomb.

_"Oh, hey, Kurt."_

He'd said it sloppily, almost subconsciously, when they had accidentally bumped into each-other outside the mess hall.

Kurt can't forget the way his eyes seemed to pass over him, seemed to miss him altogether.

Because Blaine _always_ met his eyes.

Always.

* * *

Blaine decides that he really can't take the evasion anymore.

So he seizes his courage and charm and uses one knuckle to knock on Kurt's dorm door.

There's a scuffle and a hushed voice that was too unique to be mistaken for anyone but Kurt says "I don't know who that would be" and the door opens just enough for one teal eye to peek out into the hallway.

"Blaine." He sounds breathless. His cheeks are flushed, his mouth curved upward in a way that made it obvious he had just been laughing.

And that makes Blaine immediately suspicious.

Not that he was the right to be suspicious.

Or jealous.

He feels his cheeks heat up.

He clears his throat and pushes unjustified thoughts away. Kurt has pulled the door back a little, so Blaine can see his whole, beautiful face.

But barely anything else.

"Are you busy?"

Kurt's lips slip into a thin line, and Blaine suddenly wants nothing more than to put that breathless smile back on his face. "Slightly. It is something important?"

_You're important to me, and I feel like I'm losing you. It's important that I get you back into my arms immediately, that I kiss you and touch you and make you smile. I need you beside me, close to me. I need you to love me. So yes, Kurt, it is important._

"Not really."

His mouth curves back into a little smile. "Can I meet you at Driade in an hour?"

_Anything, anything, anything, anything, ANYTHING for you._

"Curfew is soon." He pretends to check is watch.

Kurt snorts and raises an eyebrow. "It's never bothered you before."

_It bothers me now, because I need you back now. Not in an hour, not in a minute, not in a year, not tomorrow. Now. _

"That's true." He rakes a hand through his curls. Kurt presses his head against the door and smiles again. Blaine loves the way his eyes are just resting on him.

Loves the way his gaze feels warm on his skin.

Hates, _hates_, the way that he missed it that much.

"Sounds good. Chai?"

Kurt nods and moves to close the door. Blaine stops it with his loafer and brings himself to say softly, "It's good to see you again, Kurt."

* * *

He didn't know what he had been expecting really.

A deep conversation, an apology, a love declaration.

_Something_.

But when he sat across from Blaine at their regular table and he used his long piano fingers to push a warm cup of chai across the glass surface, he got neither.

Suddenly, they were just talking.

Casually, nonchalantly, _normally. _

Friends.

Kurt's ecstatic.

Because, he was being honest with himself, being friends with Blaine was much better than no Blaine at all.

He could ignore the urge to leap across the table and press a biting kiss into his full lips.

He could ignore the want to rip that perfectly ironed oxford off Blaine's muscles as they rippled under the fabric.

He could ignore the need to touch, to be touched.

It wouldn't be that hard.

_…Right?_**  
**

* * *

**I wondered if anyone had noticed the chapter titles and how they're significant to the focus of the chapter content?**

**Lol. :)  
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_There's a moment when they just look at each other, chests heaving, angry words still fresh on their tongues, and wonder why they're fighting in the first place._

_Blaine still has his fists in Kurt's shirt, holding him close. His jaw is still clenched, his eyes still livid. _

_But he feels Kurt's short little breathes, feels the heat radiating from his small, lean body and anger, fresh and new, flows through his veins.  
_

_Because even though he has the right to be angry, even though he has the perfect reason, he just can't bring himself to hate Kurt Hummel. _

_And very suddenly, his lips were crashing down on the countertenor. He doesn't bother to be gentle; Kurt lets out a little moan as his hands scratch down his sides and grip his firm ass. His lips are rough; his tongue smooths over the inside of Kurt's minty mouth. He bites at Kurt's full bottom lip. He can taste the cherry on Kurt's tongue feel his body fitting perfectly into every corner of his own, smell the coconut in his hair, touch every curve, ever line, ever plane, see the passion, pure and simple, in his beautiful teal eyes.  
_

_He doesn't want to be gentle._

_He doesn't want to be kind._

_Because Kurt is forcing Blaine to love him, consciously or not. _

_And Blaine really, really loves him.  
_


	5. Taste

A few weeks go by, and suddenly, they're back to the normal, healthy relationship they had before.

Before they kissed, before they loved, before they…

Blaine swallows.

He loves talking to Kurt. He loves talking to Kurt. He loves being near Kurt. He loves being Kurt's friend.

But he also loves the way Kurt's fingers ghost over Blaine's arm when he's concerned.

He also loves the way Kurt's soft hair falls over his forehead when he's not paying attention.

He loves the way Kurt leans back in his chair and the edge of his shirt lifts, exposing just a sliver of his porcelain skin.

He loves the way Kurt's lips taste like cherry and something indescribably _Kurt. _

Not that Blaine's tasted them since last time.

And, of course, Kurt doesn't know any of this, because Blaine is a _damned _good actor.

He can be the friend.

The friend, and nothing more.

But only on the outside.

On the inside, he's a mess of heat and want and love and need.

Blaine is a _damned _good actor.

And then Kurt meets Anthony.

Italian, tall, bright eyes.

Blaine doesn't think he can feel more inadequate.

He doesn't think he can feel more helpless.

Because what, exactly, was he supposed to do?

Tell Kurt that he, drunken virginity stealer, was better for the beautiful countertenor more than gentle, sweet, totally perfect Anthony?

No.

So he swallows the shouts of _I'd love you with everything in me_ and _he doesn't understand you like I do_ and smiles as he listens to Kurt's rapturous recounts of their last date.

"Am I boring you?" He looks so concerned, almost embarrassed, that Blaine has to smile and shake his head.

"No." _You're just_ killing_ me. _"Continue."

Kurt beams. "Well, he pulled up to this look-out place and I almost _died _because it was so beautiful and…"

Blaine barely notices that Kurt trails off. His eyes are locked on the rain sliding down the window next to their favorite table in Driade. The clouds are churning gray and black above their heads, almost like the contents of Blaine's stomach was churning at the never ending stories of Anthony's perfection.

He can taste the coffee on his tongue still. It's heavy and warm and he wonders if Kurt's tongue tasted like chai or mint or like the cinnamon on the scone that he's very carefully piecing into his mouth.

He reaches across the table and - before he can stop himself - smoothes a few fingers over the back of Kurt's silky hand. He bets that Kurt's skin tastes like coconut and green tea.

He bets.

He realizes there's silence after a moment. Long and heavy.

Uncomfortable.

He looks up. Kurt's staring at him with a blank gaze that Blaine really can't read.

He retracts his fingers.

"What?" He looks down at his hand, at the one Blaine had just caressed, his clear teal eyes locked onto his knuckles. Blaine shifts uneasily in his chair. "Kurt, what?"

"We're friends."

It shatters his heart. "Yeah."

"Best friends." His eyes flick upward, bright and intense, locked onto Blaine's disorientated hazel gaze. The Warbler manages to nod. "Just…friends?"

Kurt voice is soft, questioning. Blaine knows what he wants to hear, knows what he thinks, and knows what he was to say.

So he pulls his mouth into a wide smile and says, "Yeah, of course. What else?"

* * *

Kurt likes Anthony.

He likes the way Anthony likes him.

He likes how it isn't complicated.

They aren't best friends, but they like each other.

Friends, friends, friends.

Kurt makes a face. He honestly can't stand that word anymore.

He especially can't stand it when he's referring to Blaine.

Kurt hadn't expected him to listen to intently to the Anthony stories. He hadn't expected him to be _okay _with Anthony at all.

But he is, and it hurts.

Kurt scolds himself.

It shouldn't hurt.

He shakes his head. He wants to scream, to yell and yell until his lungs are empty and all the feelings inside him were gone.

A kiss, soft, is pressed into his cheek.

"Kurt?"

"Hmm?" He looks up and meets Anthony's bright eyes.

"What are you thinking about?"

He traces a vein in Anthony's arm. It runs from his wrist all the way up to his shoulder. "Nothing."

The arms around his waist tighten. "Something. Something important."

He closes his eyes as the TV flickers, as the scene in the movie they're watching – a movie _Anthony _is watching – changes somberly. Anthony's fingers are tracing their way up his arm, smoothing the skin there.

Kurt suddenly remembers when Blaine touched the top of his hand in the coffee shop. When his skin brushed over Kurt's, when he left behind a trail of goose bumps and sharp breathes.

Anthony's fingers make his skin _numb_. He can't feel them.

In that moment, he wishes he could.

He wishes he could feel a spark, a single butterfly, a brightly colored firework.

But he can't.

He swallows and meets Anthony's clear eyes.

"I'm just…really stressed about finals."

Anthony nods and says something about taking_ away your stress, baby _and their lips meet.

His mouth is warm. His lips, skillful in ways Kurt hadn't even considered, tastes like toothpaste and wintergreen mouthwash.

It tastes _synthetic_.

"Anthony." He says it quietly against his boyfriend's lips, and the tall, handsome Italian pulls away.

"Yes?"

Blaine's mouth tasted _real. _

Like chocolate and peppermint schnapps.

His tongue tasted like need and want and something like _love_.

It hits him hard, like a blow to the stomach, and suddenly he can't breathe.

Anthony's waiting for a reply, his eyebrows pulled together in a tight line.

So Kurt sits up, pulls himself out of Anthony's arms and says, "I can't do this."

Because he can't.

He can't break his own heart again.

He can't break Anthony's.

He can't _resist _himself, his desires, anymore.

He. Just. Can't. Do. It.

* * *

Blaine feels the couch shift as added weight perched itself beside him.

He glances away from his computer screen, from AP English, and meets a watery pair of teal eyes.

"Hey." The word drags on his lips a little when he realizes that Kurt's sniffling. Sniffling uncontrollably and wiping idly at his nose. "What's wrong?"

He can only think of the worst: Burt's had another heart attack, Kurt's transferring back to McKinley.

But when Kurt leans over and presses his eyes into the corner of Blaine's neck, he's hit unexpectedly with realization.

"Anthony."

Kurt nods into his neck.

Blaine's heart pounds.

"You've broken up?"

Kurt sniffs and, after what feels like a lifetime, nods again.

Blaine hopes that the countertenor can't feel his pulse, banging like a drum against the skin of his neck.

He reckons he should say something comforting, something friend-like, something hallmark.

But Kurt's arm is snaking around his waist, and Blaine swears he can feel the softest of kisses being pressed into his neck.

And that makes him very, very angry.

Because _jesus_, he wasn't about to be Kurt's _rebound_.

He wasn't about to be used, to be toyed around with, whenever Kurt needed someone to fix that little hole in the center of his heart.

So he pushes Kurt off him, forgetting to be gentle, and says bluntly, "That sucks. Maybe you should go cry your little heart out in your room. Maybe you'll make a new Mississippi. You seem sad enough."

The look in Kurt's face, the hurt and betrayal and anger, immediately makes him feel guilty.

"What?"

Blaine closes his laptop with a snap and decides, hey, I've already fucked up, guess I should just keep going.

"You're being so over dramatic right now, Kurt." He says, shoving his laptop into his messenger bag and standing up. He stalks toward the double doors that led to the dorms. When Kurt follows him, his movements are choppy, gawky. "It didn't even seem like you liked the guy all that much anyway. Do you always have to cry over everything? Do you always need comfort? Can't you ever be strong?"

He hears Kurt scoff and it makes him look back. The countertenor's feet are planted, strong, into the carpet of the long hallway and his arms are crossed over his chest. Offended and livid.

"Strong like you, Blaine? Strong, so that no one can ever understand what I'm feeling or what I'm thinking? Strong and numb, to everything other than myself? Strong, so I block everyone out?" He nearly spits the words. Blaine can feel the icy words stinging his perfect composure. "I'd rather not, thank you."

"Right, because you're so readable." He tosses his messenger back onto the floor, callous of the consequences. The sarcasm is cold. Kurt's chest heaves. "You never talk to me, Kurt. Oh, wait. Yes, you do. About Anthony. Well_, jeeze,_ Kurt, what are you going to talk about now, now that he's dumped you on your sorry ass? I bet you feel really empty now, don't you?"

"You have NO idea how I feel, Blaine!" His eyes are bright. Dangerous. Blaine winces as he throws a fist into the air in exasperation. "You have no idea how it feels to love someone and have them rip your heart out, and then _still_ love them!"

But that's confusing.

Because Anthony never broke Kurt's heart.

Blaine feels his heart drop into his stomach.

Somehow, they'd gone from talking about Anthony, to talking about _them_.

"I didn't realize you were capable of any emotion other than friendship." His words are icy and raw; Kurt's face falls a little, but his stature stays firm, planted. "You were the one who wanted to be friends, Kurt, you were the one that wanted things to work out. I haven't led you on, I haven't encouraged you. So please. Get. The. _Fuck_. Over. Yourself."

There's a moment, then, when they just look at each other, chests heaving, angry words still fresh on their tongues, and wonder why they're fighting in the first place.

Blaine still has his fists in Kurt's shirt, holding him close. His jaw is still clenched, his eyes still livid.

But he feels Kurt's short little breathes, feels the heat radiating from his small, lean body and anger, fresh and new, flows through his veins.

Because even though he has the right to be angry, even though he has the perfect reason, he just can't bring himself to hate Kurt Hummel.

And very suddenly, his lips were crashing down on the countertenor. He doesn't bother to be gentle; Kurt lets out a little moan as his hands scratch down his sides and grip his firm ass. His lips are rough; his tongue smooths over the inside of Kurt's mouth. He bites at Kurt's full bottom lip. He can taste the cherry on Kurt's tongue feel his body fitting perfectly into every corner of his own, smell the coconut in his hair, touch every curve, every line, every plane, see the passion, pure and simple, in his beautiful teal eyes.

He doesn't want to be gentle.

He doesn't want to be kind.

Because Kurt is forcing Blaine to love him, consciously or not.

And Blaine really, really loves him.

* * *

**:/ Don't kill me. Review, though.  
**


	6. Hear

Blaine breathes in. The air around him is crisp. Clean.

The Pumpkin Spice Latte lingers on his tongue; the smell finds its way up to him, sparking the warmth and excitement of fall in his veins.

Beside him, Kurt flips a page in _Vogue. _He's systematically switching his coffee from palm to palm as he stabs at certain articles of clothing, trying desperately to make Blaine understand that _this shirt looks completely ridiculous, Blaine, look at the color! It looks like a watermelon Jolly Rancher mated with a puke flavored Bertie Bots Bean._

Blaine isn't really listening to his words. He's listening to the way Kurt's voice jumps in octaves when he gets excited, the way he hums quietly when he finds something that _would look so amazing on me, I swear._

He reaches out a hand and his fingers smooth over the surface of the countertenor's hand.

The soft gesture makes his eyes flick upward from the magazine.

Blaine swears the one day, Kurt's eyes will kill him; despite how many times they land on him daily, they still take his breath away.

He moves his hand away.

"Just because we're back on friendly terms doesn't mean you can hold my hand," comes the sharp reprimand.

His eyes, stony, drop back to the pages in front of him.

Blaine sets his coffee down on the table in front of him and reaches over to close the magazine.

Kurt looks scandalized.

"_Friendly terms_?"

The countertenor cocks an eyebrow. "Yes, friendly terms. Did you have a different idiom for us in mind?"

"How about boyfriends? Since, you know, I made it perfectly clear that I'm desperately in love with you last night."

"You made it perfectly clear that you were in _lust _with me, B-"

Blaine crosses his arms over his chest. "Kurt Hummel, you really are thick, aren't you?"

"I resent that."

"Oh, please."

"If we're just going to spend the day arguing again, I think I'll go work on the monstrous stack of home-"

"Kurt." There's a little waver in his voice as Kurt's name leaves his lips. The countertenor hears it; his eyes narrow, his chin jerking a little to the left. "Would you just shut up and listen for once?"

"I love you. I love you. I love you. Okay? I love that stupid look on your face right now; it's that one you make when you're skeptical and angry mixed together. I know you don't believe me, Kurt, because now your cheeks are pink and, look, one of your fists is curled up." He reaches over and smoothes the countertenor's fingers out, spreading them across the cover of the magazine. "But I do. I love that idiotic stubbornness in you. I love that you know me so well that you can't let yourself believe me…I hate that too, though, because I want you to believe me more than anything right now. I'm not one for corny, Kurt, but this words won't stop falling out of my mouth right now."

He pauses. Kurt's not looking at him anymore; his beautiful eyes are locked onto his shoes.

"Listen, Kurt Hummel. I'm in love with you, and there's nothing you can say or do right now to change that. End of story, complete, period. "

There's a moment of silence that seems to stretch. The people around them chat onward, oblivious of the incredible pounding of Blaine's heart as Kurt's eyes flicker up to meet his again. They aren't wet, or cold, or conveying any emotion at all. They're just staring, boring into him.

Waiting.

So Blaine brushes his fingertips down the back of Kurt's neck, thumb running against his jaw, reveling in the softness of his skin, and takes his bottom lip slowly between his own.

Kurt sighs; it ghosts against the panes of Blaine's face. He feels Kurt's lips move against his, feels him clutch the collar of his shirt and slip a hand through his curly hair.

His skin erupts with goosebumps.

When he pulls away, he presses the softest of kisses onto Kurt's temple. He feels Kurt's pulse, racing, under his index finger.

They look at each other. Just look, eyes running each over each other's faces, and Kurt finds something there that he hadn't before. Something that makes the corner of his mouth lift and trace a hand down the side of Blaine's face, grabbing him forcefully by the jaw and forcing him to look, hard, into his eyes.

Not that Blaine was complaining.

"You're crazy."

His heart jumps into his throat.

"And corny."

He tries to look away, but Kurt jerks his chin back up.

"And you have absolutely no good reasons for loving me."

He opens his mouth to argue, but Kurt shushes him with one long fingers.

"But I can't help loving you anymore than you can help singing those stupid Disney songs."

Blaine grins. "That's probably the most romantic thing you've ever said, Kurt Hummel."


End file.
